


Morning is my Nighttime

by impossiblelight



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblelight/pseuds/impossiblelight
Summary: After the end of the beginning, he couldn’t help himself.Keeping a lookout everywhere for Neil became . . . a habit.*Set after the end of the movie.
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! After watching the movie, I couldn’t stop picturing The Protagonist and Neil in the future. This fic was one rendition of those imaginings. 
> 
> Title is taken from the song “Kinky Toe” by Baby Boys

Knuckles rapped on the marbled counter.

“No-show, eh? Your lass, or—lad? Don’t mean to assume; in any case, sorry mate.”

The Protagonist peeled his eyes from the entrance and turned around, his stool squeaking with the motion, to face the bartender. The man in his mid-forties sported a paunchy gut and examined him with kind, brown eyes.

It would have been better if the bartender was sneering. Right now, those well-meaning words landed a punch that The Protagonist needed to dull. Fast.

He lifted his empty glass. “Another scotch?”

The bartender gave him a small nod, lips drawn thinly in a pitying expression, and shuffled away.

The Protagonist steepled his fingers and released a deep breath.

An ache prickled under his skin, one that had nothing to do with the still-tender knife wound slashed across his abdomen.

Bodily wounds, he could handle.

This ache—throbbing and persistent—stemmed right under his ribcage, hair trigger reaction to the lack of a companion, _the_ companion, to recap tonight’s mission.

The missions had continued.

They needed to.

Escaping alive, minimizing casualties, determining who to trust—none of it got easier.

Yet, the moments after, when he was left all alone, were sometimes harder.

Being alone for long stretches of time had never bothered him before. A before separated by a man with honey-brown hair and cunning blue eyes and that train of thought led to nights in a bar.

Nights like tonight.

Where he could pretend to be ordinary and allow himself the weakness of feeling the ache, _this_ ache, spending the evening watching the door, waiting for _that_ man to saunter in with an elegant, loping gait he’d grown accustomed to having by his side.

The wait was an unproductive exercise.

The bartender returned with his drink.

Being attached to anything—or anyone—didn’t pay in his line of work. What paid? Certainly not money. _Belief,_ he had emphasized to Sator. Belief was the currency that charged his own efforts, and he ran on the belief that his future would eventually converge with the past, bringing Neil with it.

The Protagonist let the liquid burn down his throat and reached for his suit jacket.

There was comfort in the certainty of his purpose, at least.

*

After the end of the beginning, he couldn’t help himself.

Keeping a lookout everywhere for Neil became . . . a habit.

Realistically, The Protagonist knew that they wouldn’t meet again for a while. Months later, if he was lucky. A year or two, more like. How soon was soon? “Soon” was relative. If he looked close enough, “later” approached as quickly as “soon.” If he stepped back, he couldn’t see “soon” beyond “later.”

And so, the question of _when_ dug sharp little hooks into the soft corners of his mind.

In the imprints, grew the habit.

*

In Kyoto one summer evening, The Protagonist picked up a call from an old contact.

“Are we starting with appetizers this time?” he said, in lieu of a greeting. He shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie.

“Another time. The main course awaits,” Sir Michael Crosby’s voice crisply stated from the other side.

The Protagonist stretched out more comfortably on the bed and looked at the pink and orange streaks that painted the sky outside of his hotel window. “What’s on your mind?”

“What were you doing at Oxford University?”

The Protagonist immediately straightened. He took efforts to be discreet about his personal investigation. Apparently, not enough.

Sir Michael continued. “I have it on good authority that no international operations plan to involve the University. Well, none that require rifling through the roster of the physics department.”

“There was something I needed to check,” The Protagonist told him carefully.

“And at Cambridge, too?”

The Protagonist pulled at his shirt collar, unsticking the fabric from his neck. “Yes.”

“Did you find . . . anything of interest? Or concern?”

“No.”

The older man sighed heavily. “You’re making our people nervous. I’d expect you to ring us if there was anything, but I suspect you’ll find what you need in due time.”

“I will. It was nothing.”

Sir Michael let out a small chuckle. “Nothing? Curious . . . the ways in which the subconscious works.”

The Protagonist frowned. “I’m not following.”

“Mm. You’re aware, perhaps, of the Latin word _nil_ , which translates to ‘nothing.’”

“I suppose I should now thank you for the linguistics lesson.”

“Nil bears a striking resemblance to another word, don’t you think. Or rather, a name.”

 _Neil_.

“In due time,” Sir Michael repeated pleasantly.

The line clicked silent. The Protagonist set down the phone and leaned back against the headboard, pinching the bridge of his nose.

*

In two years, he finally kicked the habit.

Well—consciously.

In his dreams, he’d follow a man down the hallway of a hotel, turn a corner, and come face to face with Neil and his all-too-familiar crooked smile. The relief was sweet and _sharp_. The Protagonist jolted awake each time, heart thumping unsteadily.

Then he slid onto the floor and did push-ups until sweat peppered his brow, until his arms shook and exhaustion hit hard enough for him to crawl back into his sheets and succumb to a dreamless sleep.

*

His weeks were marked by a steady stream of 747s and a rotating door of destinations.

Pará, Brazil.

Krasnoyarsk, Russia.

Amsterdam, Netherlands.

This time—Mombasa.

Waiting, in most situations, had grown irritating and tiresome. He despised those lucid hours aboard a plane before touching down at his destination. Suspended in the air, he couldn’t work out, couldn’t even load and unload a gun to keep his hands busy and his thoughts at bay. As soon as he buckled himself into his seat, he slumped sideways and closed his eyes.

He woke in time to the flight attendants offering drinks. The first thing he noticed upon waking were the pale, graceful hands of the man next to him, tipping a tiny vial of vodka into the airplane-issued plastic cups. The second, a Richard Feynman paperback peeking out of the back-seat pocket.

“Diet Coke, please,” The Protagonist told the flight attendant. His unaffected voice belied the rush of emotions thrumming through him.

Five years. _Five_ years.

Neil turned to him. “So. Business or pleasure?”

The Protagonist drank in Neil’s appearance, willing his expression to remain controlled. Neil looked to be in his mid-twenties. Light stubble gave him the appearance of being older but the lack of hard-worn wariness in his expression betrayed his youth.

His posture, his melodic cadence—still the same.

“Business,” The Protagonist ultimately answered. He cast a meaningful glance at Neil’s tray. “I’d join you otherwise.”

“Business, even 35,000 miles in the air?” Neil mused.

Their seats and tables shook unpleasantly.

“The work never ends,” The Protagonist replied wryly.

The plane suddenly careened perilously to one side, and both of them instinctively gripped their arm rests. Other passengers let out yips of surprise and a few rows back, a baby began crying.

Something was off.

“We haven’t flown long enough to bring us near the equator or any other notable jet streams. This sort of reaction can’t be due to turbulence. At least, not turbulence alone.” Neil spoke in a concerned, matter of fact fashion, as if dictating observations from an experiment. It wasn’t clear if he was speaking to The Protagonist directly.

He was right, though. The Protagonist unbuckled his seatbelt and stood.

“I’m going to check on the pilots.”

Neil looked up at him. Surprise flickered across his face before a corner of his mouth drew up. “How brave,” he drawled.

The Protagonist smoothed down his clothes and sent Neil a blank stare. “Waiting doesn’t appeal to me.” He stepped onto the aisle and gripped the back of Neil’s headrest as the plane jerked unpleasantly again.

“I’ll come with. Just in case.”

Unbidden, worries rushed to his mind. _Can this Neil handle himself? Or is he offering out of some naïve sense of righteousness?_

Wordlessly, The Protagonist began staggering towards the cockpit, not waiting to see if the other man would follow.

When they reached the door, they heard foreign voices speaking agitatedly within. Their words were unintelligible. Making out their speech was even harder when the plane tilted viciously, causing the passengers to cry out in alarm.

“Hijack,” The Protagonist mouthed to Neil.

Neil nodded in solemn agreement.

The Protagonist tried the door; it didn’t give.

“It’s locked. I’ll let you . . .” he tipped his head towards the door and looked at Neil.

“You think I’d know how to unlock it?” For the first time since waking, The Protagonist detected suspicion from Neil.

“Can you?”

Neil eyed him.

“You’re in luck.” He bent down and pulled some unidentifiable tool from his pocket. The Protagonist watched without comment, though Neil’s preparedness came as a relief. He wouldn’t have to worry about Neil, if this situation turned violent.

After a minute of working at the lock, Neil paused and turned to the Protagonist. “We’ll need to move immediately.”

“Okay.”

With a soft _click_ , the door swung open. Two incapacitated pilots fell in front of their feet while two masked men at the controls spun around and pointed guns at them. “Show hands!” One of them shouted.

Both The Protagonist and Neil slowly brought up their hands.

“Leave now and nobody gets hurt,” the other masked man growled.

Neither The Protagonist nor Neil responded.

From the corner of his eye, The Protagonist observed Neil taking one slow step forwards.

“No moving!” The man closest to Neil barked.

An impasse.

All that could be done was to wait.

A flight attendant shrieked behind them and one of the men, distracted, shifted his gun towards her at the same time that The Protagonist drove his elbow down and dislodged the weapon. Simultaneously, Neil wrestled the gun away from the other man.

Whatever this was, it clearly wasn’t from an organized operational effort. The planning and reactions of these men gave them away as amateurs. But hijacking a plane wasn’t the same as petty theft. Someone more powerful had outsourced this job to them. _Did they even expect the job to be carried through?_

The Protagonist and Neil finished quickly.

Once both of the criminals were knocked out, The Protagonist addressed the flight attendant, who had flattened herself on the wall to the side. “Ma’am, it’s safe now. I’m going to need you to check on the passengers, though. Make sure they’re calm.”

She scurried away, nearly tripping in her kitten heels.

Neil was already talking to Air Traffic Control.

The Protagonist inspected the pilots’ condition. Blunt force trauma to both of their heads with no bleeding wounds. They were still breathing. He bound and gagged the hijackers, then moved all the bodies to the side.

Once done, he returned to the entrance of the cockpit and watched Neil. _Five years_ , he kept repeating internally, reminding himself that the man in front of him was real and very much alive. When Neil noticed him, he shifted the talking piece away from his mouth. “We’re going to be okay,” Neil said. They needed to temporarily land the plane at another airport and hand the men over to the authorities before continuing to Mombasa.

“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” Neil asked.

"The military,” The Protagonist replied. “You?”

“Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.”

Neil’s reply came so placidly it sounded like a lie, but right now wasn’t the time to confront or take up further investigations.

“Will you be all right up here? I’m going to sweep through the rest of the plane and then stay back.”

Neil smiled easily at him. “Certainly.”

Hours later and two criminals lighter, they finally landed safely at Moi International Airport.

The Protagonist stayed back until all passengers exited. The lack of a guard for the hijackers still bothered him. None of the passengers exhibited suspicious body language as they shuffled out though.

En route to the plane’s entryway, The Protagonist froze when he felt cool metal pressed against the back of his head.

“Is this necessary?”

“There’s no guarantee otherwise,” Neil said quietly.

“There’s no guarantee either way.”

“Who are you working for?” Neil asked.

The Protagonist closed his eyes. “Myself. The people. Take your pick.”

“Without any partners? Not likely.”  
  
“Not impossible, though. You helped me today, after all.”

“Who are you?” Neil increased the pressure of the barrel against The Protagonist’s head.

The Protagonist released a slow breath. “A friend.” The rawness in his voice was almost shameful to his own ears.

Neil said nothing.

The pressure against his head lessened.

Before Neil could ask another question, The Protagonist ducked and pulled his arm forward, propelling the man off-balance and reversing their positions so he had Neil’s arm twisted behind his back, forcing the taller man to bend. His other arm braced against Neil’s throat.

“Motherfucker,” Neil rasped out.

The Protagonist hummed. He tightened the arm around Neil’s throat. “When you’re ready, call,” he murmured against Neil’s temple and rendered the man temporarily unconscious.

He lowered Neil gently to the ground and tucked a card into the breast pocket of Neil’s blazer.

Then he strode off the plane.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ringing in the new year with a new chapter. Thank you so much for reading :)

Early mornings or late nights, the result was the same: no messages from an unknown number, no missed calls.

From outside, an occasional car horn blared through the night amidst the mumbled sounds of traffic.

Distantly, from the other side of the beige wall facing the bed, he could hear muffled Italian dialogue from a TV and mingled laughter.

The Protagonist turned his gaze towards the empty single bed to his left, next to the window, where the flimsy, white lace curtains did little to shield against the hazy orange light slanting onto the covers from a streetlamp.

Six months had passed. Neil hadn’t reached out.

*

A street vendor’s station in Tibet almost made his knees buckle.

That old prickly ache stretched across his chest and he wanted to laugh at the pang, as if absurdity could dilute it.

Around him, other tourists casually walked by; couples with intertwined arms, small children clinging to their parents. Thoughtful, eager expressions around.

A ring of contentment surrounding his coiled turmoil.

The merchant urged him closer, and The Protagonist approached wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights, helpless to the momentum of events curved through space and time.

At the table’s edge, he tasted blood.

He released his cheek from his teeth’s abusing.

There, hung across a board, was a row of small metal talismans strung through with colored strings.

The merchant’s grey brows drew together in a ribbon of concern.

Following his stare, she waved a tanned, weathered hand over the talismans, palm up, as if to say _which one_?

He paid for two with vermillion-colored strings and pocketed them immediately.

For posterity.

*

The Protagonist pushed into the room, adjusted his watch and tie, and strolled to a seat with a place card of his name in front.

Three chimes rang through the air, metal against glass.

Right on time.

An Asian woman wearing an emerald green suit stood at the front of the ballroom, red lips curved into a pleasant smile, waiting with the confident air of someone used to commanding a room. The hum of conversations grew quiet. Individuals sitting around circular tables craned their necks.

The Protagonist recognized her as Fay’s superior within the CIA. Director Martha Huang. Fay sat at the table near her; when he caught The Protagonist’s eyes, a grimace shadowed his face before he downed his champagne flute and looked back at the Director.

Director Huang lifted her glass, dark eyes sparkling. “A toast, to all of us gathered here today. It is a bit of a tight fit in here, so I hope you are all comfortable.”

Chuckles swept across the spacious dining room, more than adequate for the fifty individuals present.

“How good it is, to see everyone cleaned up and smiling for once.”

More chuckles. The Protagonist gave a small smile.

“I want to thank you for another year of hard work. You all are the invisible actors of justice, and . . .”

Someone softly gasped. Hushed apologies followed as a contrite blonde straightened a toppled glass.

Next to her, a man in a sleek grey suit pushed back his seat and stood up, his back facing The Protagonist.

A man with honey-brown hair.

Director Huang continued her speech, but The Protagonist’s attention snagged on the individual standing in front of him.

The man gave a sheepish smile to those sitting behind him, dabbing a red cloth napkin against his abdomen.

A man with cunning blue eyes.

His smile dropped as he recognized The Protagonist, and The Protagonist, him.

A beat passed; shock mirrored on both of their faces.

Neil gingerly set down the napkin.

Then he bolted for the door.

The Protagonist teared out of his seat and ran after Neil.

They sped through the hallways and cut through the lobby, out onto the streets.

“Neil!” The Protagonist called for him.

Neil spared him a single glance backwards before he sharply pivoted onto the roads.

Cars screeched to a halt and a motorcycle neatly swerved around Neil. Horns blasted dissonantly.

The Protagonist followed, with harsh Cantonese curses at his back.

The humidity of Hong Kong was as wrathful as any other summer day. Sweat beaded on The Protagonist’s forehead, the crushed velvet suit uncomfortably damp on his body, as he continued his pursuit of Neil.

Overhead, thick clouds gathered.

Neil ducked into a shop, where the owner abruptly fanned him out, and The Protagonist gained ground as Neil stumbled back onto the sidewalk.

They locked eyes. Neil hesitated briefly.

Between them, a shared apprehension, anticipation. 

A heavy raindrop fell against Neil’s cheek, startling him back into action.

He whipped around and sped forward.

They both skirted past passersby.

The Protagonist narrowed in on Neil, nearly close enough to make a grab.

He readied himself to throw his body forward, and—his path became blockaded.

A crowd poured out of a bus, obscuring his view of Neil, slowing him down.

Neil feinted entering a mall but drew back into a small alleyway at the last minute.

Plastic bags of rubbish dotted the building sides. The sky was ominous and unrelenting; water dripped onto him from above as well as the sides, errant ricochets off alcoves.

Puddles gathered. His socks were drenched.

He caught his breath for barely a minute before strong arms slammed him against the grimy wall of the building.

“You didn’t call,” The Protagonist huffed out, also breathless. “Then you run. What are you scared of, Neil?”

Neil pushed back, but The Protagonist’s grip was firm. “How philosophical.” He breathed out a soft, uneven laugh. “I’ll trade you. Am I running away from you? Or running to you?”

The Protagonist released Neil and backed away.

Neil faced him, hair plastered to his forehead from the downpour while The Protagonist blinked away water.

They stared at each other, panting.

“You weren’t—aren’t—inverted.”

“No,” Neil agreed thoughtfully.

The pitter-patter of rain drummed on. Their clothes clung sullenly to their bodies.

Neil took a step forward. Then another, bridging the distance between them. When he was close enough that The Protagonist could see his lashes, clumped together, wet and long, Neil raised a hand. He brushed his middle and index fingers across The Protagonist’s brow bone.

“Are you aware that this cut looks—”

“I know how it looks.”

Neil’s eyes darkened.

“You didn’t call,” The Protagonist repeated.

Neil brought his fingers to the bottom curve of The Protagonist’s cupid’s bow, a featherlight touch. “You wound me, thinking I’m that easy.” He managed to sound taunting and earnest at the same time.

The Protagonist shrugged Neil’s hand off.

One side of Neil’s mouth curled higher than the other.

He leaned in closer. “The real thing is better than a fever dream, wouldn’t you say?”

Raindrops suspended in mid-air, noticeable enough that The Protagonist took stock but subtle enough that he couldn’t fully process the phenomenon until droplets rose from the ground like early morning mist from a lake, hitting the underside of his chin, recalcitrant to gravity.

The frequency increased, faster and faster, until the impact against his skin felt like wet marbles, disorienting and—

A gun shot rang out.

Suddenly Neil was crouching on wet cement.

The Protagonist swung his head to the right.

Ives raised a gun, pointed at The Protagonist this time.

Another shot.

The Protagonist’s eyes shot open, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths.

He blinked hard in the darkness of the room.

Heart pounding, he wrenched open the drawer of the nightstand, fingers fumbling.

Papers were brushed aside, bullets were glossed over, and— _there_.

His fist closed over the familiar ring of cool metal wrought through with string.

His breathing steadied.

Seven months had passed. The old habit had returned.

*

The call came eight months after the incident on the plane, while he was in New York, gaze trained out the window on the tenth floor of an empty office building.

An unknown number stared at him from his phone screen.

His eyes flickered back to the view outside. Kat was entering a black SUV, sunglasses perched on her head, a rectangular package folded in brown paper tucked under her arm. She would be out of sight soon.

The phone’s vibration burned a hole in his brain.

This call would leave no voicemail, he was sure of it.

Kat’s driver shut her door.

_Buzz, buzz._

He had to trust that Kat’s ride to the airport would be smooth.  
  
His thumb pressed down.

“Yes?”

“ _We live in a twilight world._ ”

The voice on the other end sounded American.

It sounded like Fay.

The Protagonist clenched his jaw.

“No friends at dusk,” he replied.

“Your friend passed the test.”

Fay relayed a string of numbers—geographical coordinates. “Come collect him.” He hung up.

*

“Neil!” The Protagonist sprinted over.

Neil laid on his side, on the floor of an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn, shivering.

Once The Protagonist reached him, Neil lifted his eyes, lids heavy, and started laughing maniacally, near-unhinged.

He winced sharply as he calmed. “Is it really you,” Neil breathed out unsteadily.

“Are you okay? How badly are you injured?”

Neil waved him off with a hand.

The Protagonist bent down slowly. “I’m serious.”

“Yes, that appears to be a trend with all of you.”

Neil let out a brief, pained chortle, before clutching his side.

His unfocused eyes roved over The Protagonist.

“There’s beauty in hell, who would have thought,” Neil muttered, before his lids slid closed.

The Protagonist measured Neil’s pulse. Still strong. No blood anywhere.

From the surface, no visible wounds.

The Protagonist rolled up Neil’s sleeve. His inner arm bore signs of recently being hooked up to an IV; that explained his reactions. The analgesic effects were wearing off before Neil passed out though, which meant that at the earliest, whatever Neil endured happened extremely early today or sometime yesterday.

Internal injuries would have to be assessed and monitored further.

Fay wouldn’t leave him like this if he was seriously hurt. Probably.

Despite the dirt and sweat covering Neil’s forehead, his clothes were clean. He wore a plain grey button-up and black slacks. They took the liberty of changing his clothes to remove any clues to his previous whereabouts.

No answers existed here for The Protagonist.

More accurately, nobody wanted to raise any questions for him in the first place.

He needed to call in a favor with a medic.

And get them both the hell out.

*

When Neil stirred awake, The Protagonist drew over to him.

“Easy, easy,” he urged Neil, who tried to prop himself up.

Neil groaned and scrubbed a palm over his eyes.

“Where are we?”

“A loft in Chelsea.”

Neil took in his surroundings—expansive wooden paneling with high ceilings, 19th century European crown moldings at the corners, and a long stretch of glass windows down one side. “Generous benefactor,” he commented.

The Protagonist pursed his mouth. “I’m good at managing my stocks.”

Neil chuckled softly. “No, you’re not. That’s not the type of investing that interests you, anyway.”

The Protagonist narrowed his eyes. “About what you might’ve been told—”

“We’re in the midst of a series of events that could destroy the world if we fail,” Neil cut him off. “Isn’t that right?”

The Protagonist broke off eye contact to stare outside. City lights gleamed from afar. “Yes. We’re the ones saving the world.”

“But you can’t tell me everything now,” Neil observed.

“The nature of it all—timing, delivery, impact—is . . . delicate.”

“Understandable,” Neil said lightly, with an edge.

“I _will_ tell you everything.”

“In due time, I’m sure. But . . . some would argue the perfect moment doesn’t exist.”

The Protagonist considered his reply. “It’s less about a moment, more the culmination of the right set of circumstances.”

He studied the pale countenance of the man before him, the bruised shadows under his eyes, the strained bent of his body. Someone whose sense of duty was indistinguishable from his personhood. Disdainful of corporeal needs that slowed him down.

“I’ve been told you have a fractured ankle, two broken ribs, and that your body is still clearing out the anesthetics they gave you hours ago. I don’t know what happened to you—”

“It’s inconsequential,” Neil said smoothly.

“—only right now, you need to rest. The urgency you feel is a testament to your fit for this plan’s success. I’ll be damned to begin this with you before you’re even healed though.”

The Protagonist pointed at the drawer of the nightstand. “Painkillers.” Then at the small table to Neil’s left, where a pitcher and a foil-covered tray sat. “Food and water.”

He gave Neil a searching look. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Neil caught his wrist before he pulled away. “Thank you.” A hoarse whisper.


End file.
